Marco Di Caprio

That morning, the sun did not rise.
It expanded, almost threateningly.

By eleven, the main street of Hanga Roa was already drenched in blinding light. The wooden houses, faded by salt and years of wind, seemed to melt slowly into the white glare. Blue shutters hung loosely. Market stalls sagged under piles of overripe mangoes. The ocean, invisible yet omnipresent, left a metallic taste on the lips.

The Rapa Nui Café stood on the corner of the street, fully exposed to the sun. Four iron tables. Warm wooden boards beneath the feet. Inside, a fan turned lazily, moving the air without easing it.

Professor Patrick Ford sat upright, his sturdy hands resting on a closed notebook. In front of him were his students.

Mario Valentino leaned slightly forward, his broad shoulders outlined beneath a light shirt. His fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of his glass. His thoughtful gaze was fixed on the archaeological center across the street.

Alicia Bresciano removed her sunglasses with a sharp gesture. When she rose slightly to watch the patrol passing by, she tensed.

Mario looked at her a second too long.

She noticed.

She said nothing, but her dark gaze brushed past him, quick and fleeting.

A faint, ironic half-smile.

Then she returned her attention to the street.

Mario lowered his eyes.

Two Chilean policemen passed again. Rifles visible. Deliberate steps. A child running nearby stopped suddenly.

Jerry Davis lifted his coffee. He drank slowly. Set it down calmly. His arms, lean but muscular, rested on the table. His body was fit without being showy, thin but solid. Dark eyes observed without agitation.

Only his right hand trembled almost imperceptibly as he placed the cup back on the saucer.

Patrick opened his notebook.

“The tablet distinguishes between treasure and the Mystery,” Patrick explained. His short white beard carried the sweat of that humid day. His pale eyes watched the street the way one reads an ancient document: searching for what is not written.

His voice did not intrude. It settled.

“Treasure shines. The Mystery illuminates.”

Mario raised his gaze. His light-colored eyes brightened. He ran a hand through his black hair.

“To illuminate means to change one’s way of seeing,” he said softly. “It’s not about possessing something. It’s about recognizing the essence of the soul.”

Alicia fixed him with her dark eyes. Her hair, hastily tied back, left the sweat on her neck exposed.

“Perhaps the Mystery was an invention of the priests to maintain control,” she replied sharply. “Light for the powerful. Obedience for the people.”

When she spoke, she leaned forward, almost as if challenging the world.

Mario felt a sudden impulse to defend her, or to contradict her. He wasn’t sure which he wanted more.

“Not everything is domination,” he said, a little too quickly.

She looked at him and did not answer.

A drumbeat sounded somewhere far away.

Pause.

Jerry lifted his gaze. His sculpted chest tightened.

“They’re gathering.”

No emphasis.

Alicia stiffened.

“Another uprising.”

Patrick slowly closed the notebook.

“The natives are furious,” he said calmly. “And it’s hard to blame them.”

The police jeep slowed in front of the Rapa Nui Café. Dust rose in the light.

A young officer stepped out.

“You need to return to the archaeological center. Immediately. Supporters of King Hotukau are organizing.”

“To protest?” Alicia asked, already on her feet.

“To force the entrances.”

The word lingered.

Mario’s composure gave way.

The Mystery was no longer an idea. It had a perimeter. And someone wanted to defend it.

“Are we a target?” he asked.

“You are foreigners searching for something they consider sacred.”

Jerry stood slowly. Tall, steady. He placed a few banknotes on the table.

“They don’t scare me,” he said in a quiet voice. “I know how to control fear.”

He said it as if serenity were a rational decision.

Yet his hand trembled again, barely visible.

Alicia stared at him.

“You can’t just decide not to be afraid.”

Jerry looked at her without stiffening. He could decide what to do with his emotions. Discipline.

Mario watched Alicia as she spoke to Jerry. He felt a faint sting. It was not anger, not exactly. A feeling of being shut out. As if there were a language between them that he did not fully understand.

Patrick stood calmly.

“It would be best for us to go,” the elderly professor said to his students.

Alicia turned to Mario as they crossed the street.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” she asked, almost provoking him.

Mario hesitated.

She looked at him intensely. Mario turned his eyes away.

The drumbeats continued. Louder now.

Behind them, the door of the café closed with a harsh, scraping sound.